Slowest form of suicide
by imafake23
Summary: M for strong themes. unrequited Kurtofsky suicide. trigger. post NBK. I do not own anything in this story except for the idea. First upload ever leave reviews3


FORWARD: This is rated M for a strong reason. Post never been Kissed. Unrequited Kurtofsky, death. Suicide, Mature theme. Kurt/Karofsky I do not own any of the characters depicted in this story or the Show Glee. I am not allied with Ryan Murphy in anyway. I only take credit for the Idea of this fanfiction and nothing more. This is my first upload ever leave reviews.

Every night he would wake up in the same cold sweat, the same fear running through his veins. He needed his escape, the blood was not thick enough, and the scars were still there. Everything was so different. But the same words ran through his mind all the time, cutting him like a knife. The same feeling of his heart being ripped out and chopped raw, he couldn't do it anyone. He was _scared, chubby, ordinary _and a_ bully. _He knew that was all he'd ever be, as long as he lived his life out. Pulling the covers off his shaking body twisting to let the feet on the cold wooden floor, his hazel hues flickering to his alarm clock that read 3:30 Am perfect. Making his way to his desk he reached in the top draw pulling a pad of stationary and a pen, he began to write. Raking in a shaky breath he felt the all too familiar sting in his eyes. He blinked it away only to let the warmth slide down his cheek like a blade. He knew this was the end, it had to be.

With his signature jotted down he sealed the letter in an envelope, he walked down the hall and into the perfectly spotless bathroom, everything was white and neat. It had to do with his mother; she always fixated on everything being perfect, and in just the right place. A prompt cross hung above the toilet. The clumsy boy walked over to it taking it down, he couldn't face it when he already knew where he was going. Going to hell. He turned towards the mirror looking at his own reflection, himself but it wasn't him. He was not the same person; he didn't know the person that was staring back at him. It wasn't the David Paul Karofsky he knew. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen his complexion was drained and ghost like, as if he was never allowed in the sun. Nothing mattered to him, he knew nothing did.

A timid hand reached out scraping the mirror with his fingertips smudging the polished reflection, another stain before letting his arm pop opened the mirror grabbing a bottle of Advil pulling the cap off he poured half into his big palm. Lifting the blood thinners to his mouth he dry swallowed them all. He wanted it to go away, all just go away. Reaching to the back of the cabinet he pulled out the old straight razor he kept around for when things got too hard to bare, when he didn't want to feel anything. Swallowing down the lump in his throat he slumped down the wall leaning against it.

The boy waited, he waited for what seemed to be forever, trying to feel the symptoms of the drugs, and he felt tired, numb. That was a very good thing. Placing the cool metal to his skin he dragged it upwards, against the old scars. Not deep enough, it was never deep enough; every time he tired it didn't work. But this time it had to. He tried again this time becoming bolder with his movements pressing harder, it hurt more than it ever had before, seeing the yellowing fat underneath his coarse skin. His _was_ human and he _was _chubby, just as Kurt had once said. But it still wasn't enough, tears clouding his vision he was sobbing violently shaking all over. This would be the last one, the last cut, third time is the charm. Raising the razor to an angle he pushed down gasping at the overwhelming pain it stung, spots filtered through his vision as he continued upwards, dropping the razor down to the floor he watched the blood pool out. Running cold across his arm hitting the white tiles in a fast pace, pooling around him like a stream. He began to slip away, fading fast like he intended in the first place. His breath became weaker and his eyes became dreary as he fell to his fate.

His mother was the one that found him, as broken and fragile as he was when he was first born. Death was the quickest way out, the best. When the school found out what had happened who hadnt known already heard over the loud speaker, school was dismissed and it was cancled for the following day. His service was held on Tuesday half the school went all dressed in dark colors. Some people were crying others stood motionless, and the one person he wanted the most to was there. _Kurt_ was there. His mother was the one to greet him handing a letter to the small boy along with her sons oversized letter man jacket. "I think this was meant for you." She whispered softly choked with tears he opened the blood stained letter shocked with what it contained.

_"Kurt,_

_'Love is the slowest form of suicide.'_

_I'm sorry,_

_Dave."_

And that was his final goodbye, it was too the only one that truly did matter, the only one that was able to break him. And with his body was lowered into the ground as dirt was thrown on top. It was another gay teen suicide, and nothing more.


End file.
